


Fall

by EternalDust



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Also very much pro-communist so don't read if that bugs you, Fluff and Angst, Historical Hetalia, I swear half of this is just Ivan being stupidly in love, M/M, Non-binary China, Past Rape/Non-con, weirdly in-depth discussions of soviet history
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-16
Updated: 2019-10-16
Packaged: 2020-12-17 17:01:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21057875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EternalDust/pseuds/EternalDust
Summary: It's their 70th anniversary, and Ivan can't help but be so proud of how far Yao has come.





	Fall

**Author's Note:**

> So quick upfront notes (historical references explained in end notes):
> 
> Yao's gender: Assigned female at birth, uses he/him pronouns, but otherwise has a pretty gender-neutral/mixed-gender style. My decision to make his gender so complicated mostly came from an attempt to combine actual historical events with the character in the web-comic/show in a way that made dynamic sense. Taiwan, Hong Kong, and Macau are his literal biological children in this interpretation.
> 
> Names: North Korea is called Hyunsoo in this fic (I just needed a name for him, so I created one). HK is called Jialong and Macau is called Haojing. Not sure how much those names are used in the English side of the fandom, but I've seen them used in the Chinese fandom.

October 2nd, 2019

Ivan should be used to this by now, but somehow waiting in the arrivals area of the Moscow airport never gets easier. He’s not sure how many of the humans recognize him--he’s well-known among his people, of course, but he doesn’t publish minute aspects of his life the way that some of his Western counterparts do. He could be anyone, really, if one wasn’t looking hard enough. The ones who do recognize him mostly lower their eyes when he catches them staring. It’s not any of their business why he’s here, and they know that just as well as he does.

Another group of arrivals exits, suitcases in hand. Mostly black hair, a few blonds and brunettes among them. Ivan’s eyes perk up, glancing once again to the screen. It’s the right flight. His eyes search the arrivals, and before long he catches sight of that perfectly-done hair bun, his heart beating a little faster as he brings his hand up to wave hesitantly as Yao’s eyes meet his.

“How were the flights?” Ivan asks, once Yao is close enough to hear him clearly.

Yao smiles a little, dragging his bag behind him until he stops a foot away from Ivan. He’s still dressed for warm weather. Ivan almost hopes that he forgot to bring his jacket--he always looks really cute in Ivan’s oversized sweaters. “I’m just happy to have finally arrived.”

“So it was bad.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You implied it.”

Yao bites his lip, glancing away. “Did you drive here, or do we need to get a taxi?”

“I drove. Come on.” Ivan turns toward the exit, glancing back to make sure that Yao is following. If this was an ideal world, or if they were only human, Ivan would take Yao’s hand in his and lead him along. But they’re not only human, and while the majority of humans may know to mind their business, some of them are still needlessly intrusive. Their relationship may not be a _ secret, _ but it’s still theirs. Not anyone else’s.

Once they reach the car, Ivan takes Yao’s suitcase and puts it into the trunk, not waiting for the inevitable “I can get it myself, Vanechka” that always follows. Yao certainly doesn’t need Ivan’s help, and yet Ivan still feels the need to help him. Even Ivan’s not really sure why he does it, he just knows that it feels right. Yao deserves the world, and Ivan would do anything, and everything, to give it to him.

“I watched the parade yesterday,” Ivan says, once they’ve pulled out of the parking garage and have navigated their way into traffic. “You looked majestic. As always.”

Yao looks down at his lap, fidgeting with his fingers. “Thank you.” Ivan reaches a hand out to place it on Yao’s lap, taking one hand into his own. He really did look beautiful--his hair up in an elaborate bun, wearing _ hanfu _ that took the female form with masculine patterns on the fabric. His eyes were strong as he’d looked over the parade, as he’d heard his people singing for him, and Ivan could not help but be so proud. The Yao that sits beside him now is far from being the Yao that he’d married in 1949.

“I have a surprise for you tonight,” Ivan says.

“Are you going to give me any hints, or do you just want me to wait and see?”

“I’ll just let you wait. More fun that way.”

“Great. Thanks. I’m glad I can entertain you.”

Ivan laughs. He likes provoking Yao sometimes. His sarcasm, as simple as it can often be, is like music to Ivan’s ears. It proves that Yao feels comfortable enough around him to be sarcastic. Yao doesn’t relax around people quickly, not after everything that’s happened to him. He’s cautious, he takes his time to know people, and it’s not until he knows them for certain that he relaxes. Everything up until that point is simply performance.

“You can sleep for the rest of the drive, if you want,” Ivan says, after a moment. “I know you must be tired.”

“Not as tired as you’d think.”

“No?”

“I’ve lived for nearly five thousand years, Vanechka, a few hours of lost sleep is nothing.”

Ivan smiles to himself. “You want to keep talking, then? I know you hate small talk.”

“It doesn’t have to be small talk.”

“Choose a topic, then.”

Yao is silent for a second. “Have you talked to our son lately?”

“What do you consider lately?” Hyunsoo isn’t their biological son, but it’s clear that he’s who Yao is referring to. Yao has two sons of his own, but Ivan would never call them his, even in an extended sense. Hyunsoo is a different case. Both Hyunsoo and Yongsoo had been raised away from their parents--their mother was dead and Kiku was untrustworthy--and so it was only natural that Hyunsoo would consider Ivan and Yao as surrogate parents, the same way that Yongsoo had latched onto Alfred. They’d protected him, in those early years, and they still supported him more than anyone else.

“Last month or so,” Yao clarifies.

“Only over the phone,” Ivan says. “I’m guessing you’ve seen him in person.”

Yao laughs. “Well, it may not be as bad as when he was younger, but there is a reason I consider him my fourth child.”

“Are Jialong and Haojing okay with him being at your house that often?”

“I mean Jialong’s dealing with his own problems right now.” That would be an understatement, if Ivan’s ever heard one. “Haojing seems to get along with Hyunsoo relatively alright. Both of them are more serious, compared to my other two. They can study a lot and talk with each other about it.”

“I’d imagine so.” Ivan smiles to himself, imaging the two of them sitting together on the little couch that has been in Yao’s Beijing house since the 70’s, a singular book open between them. It’s always good for Hyunsoo to talk with people. Ivan knows what isolation does to a person, and he would never wish that on Hyunsoo. “Have you managed to convince Haojing to read Marx, or has Hyunsoo actually found a non-Marxist book that he actually likes?”

“Well,” Yao says, taking a deep breath, “I’m not sure Haojing’s going to be reading Capital anytime soon, but he’s definitely been put through Hyunsoo’s explanations of most of the other major works once or twice.”

“Has Hyunsoo made him read Mao yet?”

“Yes.” Yao giggles. “You should have seen the look on Hyunsoo’s face when Haojing said he’d read Lenin but not Mao.”

“Let me guess, he went into the ‘it’s your own family’ rant?”

“Mhm.”

Ivan smiles to himself. “We raised him well, didn’t we?”

Yao looks like he managed to choke on air. He gets past it, though, and he starts laughing, bringing up his free hand to attempt to muffle it. Ivan smiles at the sight. “Don’t let your current leaders hear that.”

“Listen,” Ivan says, “they may not be communists, but at least they kind of know their history. It’s better than the Westerners who act like saying that Lenin was good is an act of terrorism.”

Yao rolls his eyes. “I know your history better than they do.”

“Well you _ were _ there for quite a bit of it.”

“And I think Khrushchev was full of shit.”

There it is. Ivan can’t help but smile to himself just a little bit. “Are you about to try to speculate on why the Soviet Union collapsed again?”

“Would you like me to?”

It’s not like Ivan’s not already heard it about a hundred times. “Go ahead.”

“If Khrushchev hadn’t been a revisionist piece of shit,” Ivan hums, “then our governments never would have had a falling out, and the bureaucratization wouldn’t have taken place, and you would’ve never gotten Gorbachev in a position of power. You remember how much self-doubt it took to try to square Khrushchev’s remarks about Stalin with what you actually experienced, right?”

“I do.”

“When that feeling is spread across a whole nation of people, that fundamentally changes the way that those people imagines themselves, doesn’t it?”

“I suppose so.” It had been like a headache, a long, drawn-out one that had only gotten worse over time. Somedays it wasn’t as strong, but Ivan’s still not sure if the headache ever truly disappeared or if he just got used to the feeling.

“And that’s why my leaders don’t swear off any of my past leaders, even if they do admit that they made mistakes. Because just throwing away entire eras of history, as both positive and negative as they can be, spreads doubt. And that never works out well! As you well know.”

Ivan nods, a little smile on his lips. “Thank you for the lesson, professor.”

“Don’t mock me, Ivan.”

Ivan blinks, looking to the side. Yao does, in fact, look a bit angry. But he’s still holding Ivan’s hand, so he can’t be that upset. “In what way was I mocking you?”

“I’m just passionate about figuring out the errors of the past. You don’t need to joke about it.”

“I wasn’t joking about it.” Ivan squeezes Yao’s hand, hoping it’ll help to calm him down. Yao still has their dream, and sometimes Ivan doesn’t know where the line between the real and the hoped lies. “I know you’re passionate, and that’s a good thing. I just find it a little amusing that you spend so much time analyzing my history to the point where you probably know it better than I do.”

“Fine, whatever.” Yao lets out a long breath. “We’re almost back to your house, right?”

“Almost.”

“Alright. I’ll try and get like five minutes of sleep, then.”

Ivan smiles to himself, trying not to laugh. “Alright, _ bǎobèi. _”

\----

October 2nd, 1949

Ivan can’t exactly claim that he knows Yao--no one can, really, given how much older than the rest of them he is--but one would have to be deaf and blind to say that everything was alright. Yao hadn’t wanted to even touch Ivan after it was over, he’d just rolled over and curled up around his pillow, facing toward the door and away from Ivan. That wouldn’t be too odd, not everyone’s a cuddler, but it wasn’t just that. As Ivan lay on his back and stared at the ceiling, he swore he could hear what sounded dangerously like muffled crying.

It tore at his chest, not like he was being attacked from outside but like his heart was trying its best to force its way out. This was supposed to be a happy day. Their wedding day, after years of Ivan being a lovesick fool and Yao always seeming, at least on some level, to reciprocate the affection. Ivan thought that Yao wanted it as much as he did--he’d asked him, in 1945, if when Yao was finally liberated he would want to get married, and at the time Yao had said yes. But here they are, in Yao’s home in Beijing with matching rings on their fingers, and Yao is crying and Ivan has no idea what to do to make it better. If he tried to talk to him, Yao would just push it down and pretend like it’s nothing. But if he ignored it--what would happen then?

Ivan slides out of bed, pulling on the night robe that he’d left on the dresser. He walks to the door, quietly opening it and walking out into the little courtyard in the middle of the house. He looks up at the stars shining so brightly and he takes a little pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, lighting one with a match and taking a drag. He doesn’t smoke as often as many of the humans he knows, but he does it sometimes. He understands why it helps--it gets him out of his head, gets him to relax a little and concentrate on anything other than the dread that comes from uncertainty. He glances up at the stars, the stars which look so bright in Beijing compared to how they look in Moscow, and he wonders if they’ve made a mistake. They’re trying so hard, the two of them, to be as human as they can. But both of them know that they will never _ really _ be human. They will never not be their nations.

“You smoke?”

Ivan’s head turns. Yao walks out of the bedroom hesitantly, wearing the same kind of loose nightclothes as Ivan but managing to still look pretty in them, even with red around his eyes and his hair messy. Then again, maybe that’s just Ivan being biased. “Not often. Do you want one?”

“It’s just tobacco?”

Ivan nods.

“Alright.”

Ivan takes another one from his pack, passing it and the matches to Yao. Yao lights his cigarette, handing the pack of matches back to Ivan once he has it lit. He takes a long drag, and Ivan can see some of the stress leave his shoulders. His eyes may still be red, but at least he’s not crying anymore. Ivan lets out a long breath.

“You said you don’t smoke often.”

“I don’t.”

“Then why now?”

Ivan looks over. Yao’s not looking at him, just looking up at the sky above them. “I smoke when I don’t know what else to do.”

Yao looks down. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“Making you uncomfortable.”

Ivan blinks. “You didn’t--” He takes a deep breath. “I did something wrong. Not you.”

Yao shakes his head. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Everything you’ve done is within your right.”

“Why were you crying, then?”

Yao takes another drag. He seems reluctant to meet Ivan’s eyes. “I’m just overly sensitive. It wasn’t you, it’s me. I swear.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that when I have sex, even with someone I trust, it reminds me of what happened to me before. And I know that’s just something that I need to work out--”

“You should’ve told me.” A new pain burns in Ivan’s chest. He knows what Yao’s been through. In the 1930’s, when they were the closest they’d ever been to truly being in love, Yao had told him, with words that had seemed far too dispassionate to be the full truth, what the other nations had done to him. The rape, the kidnapped children, the utter humiliation that came from it all. Even being reminiscent of an inkling of that--Ivan can’t let himself do anything that would hurt Yao. Not like the others had hurt him.

“I just would’ve made you more uncomfortable,” Yao says. “At least this way you could enjoy yourself.”

“But I hurt you in the process.”

Yao drops his cigarette on the ground and watches it fizzle out. “What would you have done different if you knew?”

Ivan knows, without even needing to think. “I would’ve waited. Forever, if you needed it.”

Ivan’s heart almost hurts watching Yao’s reaction. He looks up at the sky, then back down at himself, and in his eyes Ivan can see what humiliation has done to him. This is not Yao, as Ivan remembers him, when they had both been mongol territories but Yao had always been clad in jade and silk, with proud eyes and careful movements. This is not Yao, as Ivan remembers him, as they’d met in Siberia in the 17th century and Yao had been beautiful, respectful, and so endlessly clever that Ivan had had no choice but to fall helplessly in love with him. This Yao is unsure, hesitant, so lacking in pride that self-degradation fills its place. “It’s still your right to have sex with me. As my husband.”

“Yao,” Ivan says, wanting so badly to let his own cigarette fall to the ground so that he can reach out to pull Yao close, “we’re equals. Just because I have a penis and you don’t, it doesn’t make you any less than me, alright?”

“We’re still--” Yao takes a deep breath. “We’re married. And that’s what married couples do!”

“Force each other into sex that they’re not ready to have? Is that what married couples do?”

“You didn’t force me!” Ivan stays still, his heart beating fast in his chest, as he watches Yao first look him in the eye, then look around the courtyard and then back at his own hands. “I know what it’s like to be raped. And what you did wasn’t anywhere close to it, even if I wasn’t ready for it.”

Ivan doesn’t know what to say to that. Of course he had come into this knowing how much Yao has been through, but he had thought--incorrectly--that Yao would tell him what he was or wasn’t comfortable with. “Yao.”

“What?”

Ivan takes a deep breath. “You and I-- We can’t change what’s already happened. But I don’t want to hurt you. So I’ll wait, for as long as you need it, before we ever do something like that again. If I ever do anything that makes you uncomfortable, I want you to tell me. And if there’s anything I can do to help, I want you to tell me that too.”

Ivan watches as Yao looks around, his eyes clearer than they’d been throughout the night. Yao may hate to say words bluntly, but when backed into a corner he’ll always tell the truth. He can always be brought to reason, and that’s more than Ivan can say for most nations.

“Ivan,” Yao leans back against the old stone wall, still clearly hesitant.

“Vanechka.”

“What?”

“In my language, you call people that you’re close to by a modified form of their name. I want you to call me Vanechka.”

Yao looks at him for a long second, but Ivan can see the moment that something shifts in his eyes. “Vanechka,” he pauses, as if taking in the way the name sounds coming from his lips, “we should go to sleep.”

Ivan looks away. He thought, maybe, that they’d be able to get somewhere from this. Maybe not. But at least he knew, now, that Yao might not tell him what he needed. And at least Yao knew that Ivan would respect him if he did decide to voice it. Ivan drops the butt of his cigarette on the ground, watching as it fizzles out the same way Yao’s had done earlier.

When Ivan climbs back into bed, laying down on the same side that he had more or less accidentally claimed earlier that evening, he expects Yao to lay down on the opposite side, a foot of space between them with an implicit agreement not to close the distance. But instead, Yao climbs in, hesitates for half a second as his eyes meet Ivan’s, and then Yao scoots closer, laying his head down on Ivan’s shoulder as he curls around Ivan’s side. It feels, for a moment, as if they’ve returned to those golden days of the 1930s when Yao was on the run with his revolutionaries, setting up base areas and declaring that the Soviet system would work within China itself. Yao had loved Ivan, then, or at least he had seemed to. Yao had held tight to him in the middle of the night and whispered about the world that they would build together, a world so much more perfect than the one they have been given. Ivan is almost afraid to move even a finger, as if shifting anything will break the illusion. But Yao looks up at him, bites his lip, and nods, and Ivan moves to wrap an arm around Yao’s shoulders because that’s the only thing that nod could mean.

“Good night,” Yao says, “Vanechka.”

“Good night,” Ivan replies, and hopes that Yao does not question the way that his heart is beating too fast in his chest.

\----

October 2nd, 2019

“So when should I expect this surprise that you told me about?”

Ivan smiles to himself as he sits on his bed and watches as Yao unpacks his suitcase, moving each article of clothing into the dresser drawers that have, since the 80’s, constantly held at least a few of Yao’s belongings. “It’s not that big of anything, I don’t want to get your hopes up.”

“That’s exactly what you say when you’re planning something big.” He’s not wrong. “Besides, you didn’t answer my question.”

“This evening,” Ivan replies. “It’s still the early afternoon, isn’t it?”

Yao rolls his eyes. “I suppose it is.”

“Then you can just relax until it’s time.”

Yao nods. “What level of fancy should I dress for?”

“Did you bring any of your _ hanfu _?”

“Yes.”

“Wear that, then.”

Yao pauses, a light silk shirt in his hands, as he turns to meet Ivan’s eye. “You think _ hanfu _ makes me look pretty.”

“I always think you look pretty.”

Yao blushes, looking back down at the shirt in his hands and quickly going back to putting things in the drawer. He’s almost finished with the thing in his suitcase--he didn’t bring much, but given how many things he already keeps in Ivan’s house, he really doesn’t need to. “You should give me time to get re-adjusted to your flirting, Vanechka.”

Ivan laughs. “Missed me, didn’t you?”

Yao hums. “You’re much more blunt than most of the people I talk to everyday.”

“You haven’t been talking to Alfred, then, have you?”

Yao scoffs. “I try, but it’s not like it gets us anywhere. His government’s on a war path, and we all know where that leads.”

“Indeed.” Ivan knows it best, after all. He’d stared down Alfred for nearly half a century, just waiting for the day that Alfred would finally get tired of it all and decide that humanity’s extinction was less of a threat than Ivan’s continued existence. They’d never gotten to that day, at least not in the old Cold War, but Ivan’s worried, now. Alfred’s turned away from the kind of happy, “end of history” platitudes that he’d been spouting since the day Ivan had bowed his head and watched everything his people had fought for fall apart. Alfred is on the war path, once more, and this time he’s coming for Yao.

“I don’t...” Yao sighs. “It’s not like I want to fight him. I don’t want that, my people don’t want that, my leaders _ certainly _ don’t want that, but--”

“But nothing will stop the empire.”

Yao shakes his head. “He will destroy himself.”

“Yes.” Ivan stands, walking over to stand behind Yao, gently putting his hands on the elder nation’s shoulders. He starts to massage the muscles, feeling for knots the way that Yao himself had taught him. The muscles are tight, that much even Ivan can feel. “It’s not your fault if Alfred destroys himself, you know that. Just look on the bright side. We’re so close to what we always wanted, aren’t we?”

“To full communism? I think we’re still a ways off.”

Ivan laughs. “A long ways off, yes.” He rests his chin on top of Yao’s head. “Maybe I should’ve said that _ you’re _ close to what _ you _ always wanted.”

“And what’s that?”

Ivan blinks. Even though he’s proud, it still somehow hurts to say. “To be able to stand on your own. Truly on your own.”

“I survived without you for two decades, before.”

“Yes,” Ivan says, “you survived.”

\----

November 23rd, 1971

Yao looks little, almost, sitting on the little couch in the empty office that they managed to find away from all of the humans and other nations. He doesn’t look frightened, though, or ashamed. He looks Ivan in the eye, unflinchingly, challengingly. Ivan would have left, in that moment, knowing that he was not welcome, if it had not been for the fact that Yao still wore their wedding ring.

“I’m glad to have you here, finally.”

Yao nods. He breaks eye contact. “Thank you. For voting for me.”

“Of course.” Even with the distance that’s grown between their leaders, Ivan’s diplomats would be idiots to think that having the Taiwanese authorities representing China would be better than the Communists. “I was surprised how many of the Europeans voted for you. I would’ve thought they would follow Alfred’s line.”

“Maybe there is some hope for them after all,” Yao says, although Ivan can tell that it is said with a hint of irony. Arthur and Francis--they’d been some of the worst, in those early days. Not as bad as Kiku, certainly not, but they’d done their part. “One day we’ll all be free, isn’t that the point?”

“Of course.”

Yao relaxes a little more into the couch, and Ivan takes it as permission to sit down beside him. Yao does not flinch away, but he does not move toward the contact either. Ivan takes it as a good sign, on the whole, given everything that’s happened.

“You’re here for the next few days, aren’t you?”

Yao nods. Ivan takes a deep breath and hopes.

“Come back to my hotel room with me, sometime this week. Just tell your delegation that you’ll be safe and don’t need close security. We’re immortal, there’s no reason that you’d need guards.”

Yao blinks for a second. “And what would your delegation say?”

“It’s none of their business what I do with my spouse.”

They lock eyes. Yao looks more hesitant, now, and Ivan cannot figure out why. Why would he wear the ring if he did not still think of himself as Ivan’s spouse?

“You want to sleep with me.”

That’s why. Ivan shakes his head. “Only what you are comfortable with, you know that. Nothing has changed between us, Yao. I miss you, that’s all.”

Yao looks down. He starts to fidget with his ring. “And when this week passes?”

“Then we’ll wait.” Ivan sets his hand down on Yao’s, stilling his fidgeting fingers. “We’ve been apart for this long, we’ll survive for however long it takes until this separation is finally over. And besides, now that you have your UN seat back--”

“It’s still not the same. You know that.”

Ivan can’t refute that. Nothing is ever the same as it once was, no matter how hard they try to hold onto those little fleeting moments that seem to fly by like human lifetimes. “Just because we’re not the same as we were before,” the 1930s, the 1950s, “that doesn’t mean that we can’t make something better in the future. Never think of things as the end, when they don’t go our way. They’re just setbacks, right?”

“And what if we fall apart?”

“Then someday we will come back together.”

“I suppose,” Yao says, and he does not sound like he means it.

Nevertheless, Yao knocks on Ivan’s hotel room door the next night, and neither of them say anything as Yao comes inside and takes off his coat and shoes, sitting gingerly on the edge of the bed. Ivan just watches him, as he waits for Yao to say something or do something that would give him any kind of indication of what to do. He does not have much confidence that Yao will say anything at all. Even with all of the trust that they’d built, during the 50s, Yao had never been the one to take the first step. He would stand back, and he would watch with careful eyes whatever Ivan did. By the end of those years, he had learned, also, to say no. But even that had been an uphill battle, and Ivan is not sure how much Yao’s instincts have changed in the decade that separated them.

“Kneel,” Yao says, his voice unsteady. “Please.”

Ivan doesn’t hesitate. He takes a step toward Yao, until he is standing only a foot away, and then he sinks to his knees, looking up at the elder nation. When Yao hesitates to make another move, Ivan holds out his left hand, palm up. Yao reaches out his own hand to match. Locking eyes, Ivan takes Yao’s hand, gently pulling it forward to kiss his knuckles, his lips touching cold steel.

“Do you love me?”

“Yes,” Ivan responds, without hesitation.

“Are you in love with me?”

“Yes.”

“Does how I feel about you change how you feel about me?”

Yao’s eyes are purposefully blank. There is a correct answer to this question, but Ivan isn’t sure what the outcome to the correct answer will be. If Yao wants this, if he really does still feel enough of a semblance of affection for this to be worth maintaining, then the correct answer will lead to the status quo. But if Yao has lost his faith, well, all bets are off. Yao could throw his ring back in Ivan’s face without consequence. It’s not like Brezhnev or Mao would particularly care if the two of them finally divorced.

“No,” Ivan answers, “but it would change whether or not I showed it.”

Yao takes his hand out of Ivan’s, moving his fingers across the winter-roughened skin of Ivan’s face to cup his cheek. Ivan can’t help but lean into the touch, to look into Yao’s eyes and see eternity. “So even if I cared nothing--”

“I would still love you.”

“And even if I betrayed you--”

“I’ve betrayed you before. It’s not our choice.”

“Even if it meant negotiating with Alfred?”

Ivan blinks. “What?”

Yao’s hand falls away. He stands, and the moment is broken. “I know what it sounds like.” He paces. “It’s everything we agreed not to do, right? It was supposed to be me and you and our family against the capitalist world that was out to get us. But things have changed, and--”

“And it’s the only way.”

Yao nods. “It’s the only way.”

“You either stand with me, or you stand with him, and it’s not worth it to stand with me right now.” Ivan sighs. “I know, Yao, I know.”

Yao cups his own face in his hands. “If there was any way I could do anything else, I swear--”

“But you can’t survive the way you have been, can you?”

“No,” Yao says. “I can’t. And it hurts like hell to admit it.”

Ivan finally stands, crossing the room to pull Yao against his chest. “You are not your politics, Yao. You know that.”

“I’m still a communist, though,” Yao says. “And being the bitch of the capitalist empire--”

“You will not be his bitch.” Ivan’s hold tightens at the thought. Yao’s been through enough, he doesn’t need Alfred’s dirty hands touching him. “Even if you have to negotiate with him, you will not be his. I’ll make sure of it.”

Yao’s arms come up to wrap around Ivan’s waist. “We’ll be okay, then? You and me?”

Ivan’s heart hurts at the way that Yao mumbles those words, as if there were ever any kind of doubt. “Of course,” Ivan says. “We’ll fall apart and someday we’ll come back together again.”

“Someday.”

Yao tilts his head up, pressing his lips to Ivan’s in the first time in a decade. It feels like coming home, because Yao used to mean safety, in the days when anything had really been safe. Yao was peace and beauty, but as Ivan pulls at the buttons and cloth and feels the lines of bone underneath skin, Ivan can’t help but feel that this is for the best. It has to be. Because where Ivan is strong, healthy; layers of muscle and fat underneath his wind-bitten skin, Yao is still only the skin and bones that he had been when Ivan had married him. Poor. History had made Ivan prosperous, and it had made Yao poor.

“Are you sure about this?” Ivan whispers into Yao’s ear as they press skin against skin, and Yao does not back away.

“Yes,” Yao whispers in reply, and if he had not sounded so sure, Ivan would not have believed him.

Yao does not curl into Ivan’s chest when it is over, this time. He sits up, after a minute, and he stands, and he begins to collect his clothes from the floor while Ivan is still catching his breath. Yao pulls them on, one layer at a time, careful not to let a single piece of fabric slide out of place. He finds his hairband, where it had dropped on the floor, and he slips it onto his wrist and begins to pull his hair back.

“Not even one night?”

“You know I can’t.” Ivan cannot breathe to counter him, because he knows it’s true as much as his lungs don’t want to accept it. Yao must go, now, and things will change like they always have, and maybe one day if they’re lucky they will fall together again. Ivan’s not betting on it. “Get some sleep.”

Ivan closes his eyes, and he does not watch him go.

\----

October 2nd, 2019

“I thought you liked privacy.”

“I do,” Ivan says. “But I think I’d be forgiven for wanting to be publicly seen with my spouse on occasion.”

Yao laughs, his hands tightening on Ivan’s elbow. “Showing me off, are you?”

“Of course.”

They’ve already drawn quite a few stares on the walk from Ivan’s house to the park, although Ivan’s fairly certain it’s more because of Yao’s outfit than because of either of their identities. Yao does look very pretty, as Ivan knew he would, and the way that Yao is sticking as close as physically possible to Ivan’s side for warmth is only a minor benefit. Ivan probably should have reminded Yao about the climate differences, but he really wasn’t complaining about the actual effects.

“So is the ‘surprise’ just you showing me around the park again?”

“That’s not all of it.” 

“But it is part of it.”

“Yes.”

Ivan feels his heart beat a little faster. He’s been planning this for a few months now, or at least he’s had the idea for it. He knows it’s not much, at least not as much as it could be, but Yao has never been one for large, public displays of affection. In the 1930s, Yao had always told him that it was not the big days that mattered, but instead the little days that passed by without things changing. Things haven’t changed, for them, even though everything around them has come and gone. This will be enough. 

“Do you ever think about what life would have been like, if we’d just been humans?”

Yao is just looking forward, staring at what could just be the trees and the sky. There’s people around them, though, people of all ages, men and women and children going about their lives. Ivan can tell by the tone in Yao’s voice--restrained, more wistful than usual--what he’s really saying. Ivan thinks about it all the time, too.

“It would be different whenever we lived, wouldn’t it?”

“I suppose.”

“If I could choose a human life, though, I think I’d be born around 1910. Just young enough to still be a child during the revolution, but also too old to be of much use during the second war.” Ivan pauses, glancing over at Yao. He’s quiet, and Ivan decides to continue. “Then when I would be a young man, I’d meet a student that came all the way from China to study in Moscow, and I would fall in love.”

Yao blushes, ducking his head. “You’d marry me, then?”

“If you’d let me,” Ivan replies. “We’d live a simple life, be good soviet citizens, but we’d have a few children and enough to eat. We’d survive the war and all of the changes that would come in the Cold War. We’d grow old together, and maybe, if we were lucky, we wouldn’t live to see it fall.”

“And I wouldn’t live to see my nation become strong.”

Ivan can’t deny that. For all that he loves Yao, he will never not be somewhat biased toward the life that he has already lived. “You asked about if we were humans.”

“Yes.”

“And I answered how I would most like to live with you, if the rest of history were unchanged. It would be least chaotic the way I answered, I think.”

Yao sighs. “I suppose I can’t argue against that. Maybe someday there will be another time, one that hasn’t yet come, where we’ll be happier than we are now.”

“You’re happy though, aren’t you?”

Ivan feels Yao tense. “I’m hopeful,” Yao says, “but I don’t know if happy is entirely the right word.”

“You’re worried.”

“Always.”

“Don’t be.”

Yao laughs. “Why shouldn’t I be?”

“You’re stronger than I am. You’ll get through Alfred’s grandstanding.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s not wise to be worried.”

Ivan doesn’t know whether to sigh or laugh. He really never can win arguments with Yao. “Of course,” he concedes, “but not today. You should be happy today.”

“I am. Really.”

“You just said you weren’t sure happy was the right word.”

Yao shakes his head. “No, it’s just… Happiness in the long-term or short-term, I guess.”

“I understand.” Ivan reaches into the pocket of his coat, and once he finds what he’s looking for, he turns to face Yao eye to eye. He takes one of Yao’s hands in his, knowing from the look on Yao’s face that he’s trying to figure out what the cold metal is. “At first, when I was thinking about what to get you, I thought that it would be good to have something about both of us. But you and I both know that you are far more resilient than I.”

Ivan lifts his hand away, revealing the necklace. It’s nothing too complicated, a simple, thin chain with a pendant on the end. Yao takes the pendant in his fingers, examining the front, a red circle with the five yellow stars; and then the back, plain silver with “1949” engraved in the surface. “It seems more like something for my birthday than something for our anniversary.”

“Well isn’t it my luck that they come so close together?”

The corners of Yao’s lips twitch upward, even as Ivan can tell he’s trying not to laugh. Necklace still in hand, Yao reaches up to grab the lapels of Ivan’s coat, dragging him downward into a kiss.

Yao really is stronger than him.

\----

December 25th, 1991

Things are too quiet. They have been for months, of course--Eduard had been the first to pack up his things and leave, years ago now, but they’d all been leaving. One by one. There are too many empty rooms in a house that was once their home.

No matter how many times Ivan passes through the hallway on the second floor that had once been full of life--different bedspreads, books on the shelves in different languages, puzzles and notepads left on random tables, fresh flowers in windowsills--it never stills the jerk in his gut at the plain mattresses and bare walls. He should redecorate, he knows he should, turn them into guestrooms and pretend that this is how things are supposed to be. But these rooms, they will never not belong to his sisters and his comrades. The room with twin beds and little holes poked into the wall from years of thumbtacks, it will never not be Raivis’ room, the room Hyunsoo would stay in whenever he would visit. The pink room with a hidden compartment under the floorboards, it will never not be Natalia’s; the little notes that she’d left under the mattress, behind the desk, and inside the dresser always cut a little too close to home. _ I won’t abandon them, _read the first one that Ivan had found, a few days after she’d left.

“Merry Christmas,” Yao says, without any merriness to speak of, as Ivan sits down at the dining table that now seems far too big. 

Ivan grunts in response.

“He resigned.”

Ivan scoffs. “Too late.”

Yao doesn’t reply. They both know it’s true, and the empty house is more than enough of a reason why. Yao reaches for another ingredient to set on the counter, a small array of knives and pans already laid out. Ivan almost feels bad, watching Yao do all the cooking, but they both know it’s for the best. Yao’s better at it, and that’s why he’s been doing it, everyday, for the months that he’s been keeping Ivan from the insanity of loneliness.

“He gave his powers to Yeltsin, didn’t he?” Ivan asks, already knowing the answer.

Yao hums.

Ivan shakes his head. “He’ll ruin it all.”

“But it’s too late now.”

Ivan stands, walking past Yao to reach for the highest cabinet in the kitchen. He pulls one of the bottles down, not particularly caring which one it is. They’re all close enough to the same anyway; a few percentage points never make that much of a difference. He twists the cap off, even though that’s certainly not how it was intended to be opened, and takes a long swig. He knows it won’t make it better, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t try to forget for a few hours. He doesn’t think he can bear to watch when they raise the new flag.

“Vanechka, stop.” Ivan doesn’t stop. “Ivan. Ivan!” Yao grabs the bottle, pulling it away from his lips. “We talked about this, didn’t we?”

“It’s not like you don’t drink.”

“Well I’m not in the midst of watching my country fall apart,” Yao replies, wrenching the bottle out of Ivan’s hands. He sets it on the counter, positioning himself between Ivan and the bottle. “Forgive me if I don’t trust you with alcohol tonight.”

“What do you think I would do? Hurt myself?” Yao doesn’t even twitch. “I’m a nation, we both know I couldn’t do anything that would leave a mark.”

“You should just be glad you’re still alive, Ivan. After everything--”

“And what if I’m dead this time next year? What then?”

“You’re not going to die.”

Ivan’s eyes narrow. “You didn’t sound so sure a minute ago.”

“I’m trying to help,” Yao says. “Don’t you understand that? I understand what this feels like, and I’m trying to stop you from making bad decisions.”

“You understand what this feels like? Do you?” Ivan sets a hand on the counter behind Yao. The older nation doesn’t flinch. “To lose everything that you’ve been trying for so long to build? To have your family ripped away from you? To have people lying to your face and telling you that it’s for the best--”

“I had my family ripped away from me,” Yao says, his voice lower than Ivan’s heard in a long time. “My sons, my daughter, my traitor brother, and my cousin who trusted you more than she trusted me. I lost everyone that I cared about, and when I was all alone for decades I still pretended that it didn’t hurt because it was the only way I could survive. When they made me talk to Alfred and he treated me like trash, I smiled as if nothing were wrong. When they told me that market reforms were necessary, I just nodded and said I understood. When they told me not to trust you--”

“You nodded and said that you already knew.”

Ivan looks Yao in the eye, seeing those eternal depths and knowing that it’s resentment coming from inside. That’s always what it’s been, hasn’t it? Yao’s just been waiting to throw him aside, waiting for the day that Ivan was worthless enough to abandon once and for all. All these years, Ivan has been too attached to someone who has never felt the same. Yao will never be his. For maybe the first time in three centuries, Ivan knows that it’s hatred in his own eyes as well.

“No,” Yao says, slowly, dragging out the single syllable. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and shakes his head. “No, I didn’t agree. They told me not to trust you and I told them that you, Ivan, you were the only thing they would never take from me.”

Ivan’s throat runs dry. “Even when--”

“No matter what. Do you know how many times they told me I should stay away from you?” Ivan keeps his mouth shut. “Every time I even mentioned your name, I was told that I shouldn’t trust you. I was told that you were just manipulating me; that Krushchev was using our relationship to make China weaker. I was told that you didn’t care about me, that no nations ever get married for good intentions. But I knew that wasn’t true. At least not with you.”

Yao’s forehead drops to Ivan’s shoulder, and even through the growing buzz of the vodka and the remnants of anger that are still left brewing in his lungs, Ivan can’t help but wrap one arm around Yao’s back, bringing the other hand up to cradle the back of his head. He feels the tears start to seep through the fabric of his sweater, and he feels that same pain in his chest that comes whenever he makes Yao cry. He doesn’t deserve him, not when he trusted him so little. Not when he was so suspicious, when he doubted Yao even though the elder has proven beyond loyal. But that’s not what sticks in his throat, it’s not the words that rise to his tongue. No, it’s the question that he’s been trying to ask, in any words but the correct ones, for the past fifty years. “You’re in love with me?”

Yao scoffs, even through his tears. “Yes, you idiot. How could I not be in love with you?”

Ivan’s breath catches in his chest. “I thought--”

“What, that I’d just been pretending for sixty years?”

“You never…” Ivan takes a deep breath. “You’ve just never said it before. I’m sorry.”

“I thought you wouldn’t need words to understand.”

He’s right, of course. As he almost always is. Because looking back, it’s clear to see. Why would Yao have agreed to marry him? Why did Yao stay with him, even nominally, despite the split? Why does he watch over him when everything is falling apart, even though the most threadbare ideological ties are disappearing like dandelion seeds in the wind? Because he loved him. Because he still loves him. He really should’ve known. Yao never was one for emotional words.

“I’m sorry,” Ivan whispers again. “I’m so sorry for doubting you.”

Yao’s arms wrap tight around Ivan’s waist. “I understand. You’re used to people leaving you.”

“But this time--” Ivan throws his head back, looking up at all the little cracks in the ceiling. He’s not sure when they got there, but he knows that they weren’t there a few decades ago. Maybe once or twice, he’d looked up and seen them and thought to himself that he would fix them later. But they’d only grown, and now there were so many of them that Ivan no longer knew which one was the first to appear. “This time I’m leaving you, aren’t I?”

“Not any more than how I left you a decade ago, right?”

Ivan shakes his head. “You still have the dream. But my dream is crashing down around me and I don’t know how much longer it will be until the last pillars fall.”

They stand in silence, for a few minutes, because it is true. They hold each other close and Ivan wonders how his sisters are doing, if Eduard and Toris and Raivis are alright; even Feliks and Elizaveta come to mind in that moment because they too were once so precious. At least Gilbert is back with his brother; at least Hyunsoo still has Yao to depend on. At least the rest of them, scattered around the world as they are, will still hold on to the traces of that dream until it either succeeds or crumbles.

“One day,” Yao says, slowly, “I’ll get there. It’ll be a long time, probably longer than you would’ve taken, if we’d lived in a different world, but I’ll get there. I swear. For both of us.”

“You don’t deserve that burden.”

Yao shakes his head. “It’s not a burden. You gave me a dream, but you also gave me the tools to get there. That has to count for something.”

“To stand against the rest of the world--”

“I won’t.” Yao lays his head back against Ivan’s chest, his breath ghosting over Ivan’s collar. “This Cold War will die with your dream. But my dream will live on.”

\----

October 2nd, 2019

Ivan leans against Yao’s shoulder, toying with the necklace he’d given him. It looks nice against Yao’s skin, the pendant laying against the dip of Yao’s chest. It always amazes Ivan to see how healthy Yao looks now, his muscles more defined and his waist no longer unhealthily thin. Ivan had loved Yao through every decade, whether in famine or in surplus, but when he’s healthy Ivan doesn’t have to worry.

“You should sleep earlier,” Yao says, watching in amusement at Ivan’s actions.

“It’s not like you’re asleep.”

“I got off a plane this morning. My internal clock is messed up.”

“Doesn’t mean you’re not in need of more sleep.”

Yao rolls his eyes. “You sound like what I tell my children.”

“You started it.”

“I know.”

Ivan stops toying with the necklace, dropping his arm to lay it across Yao’s waist. Yao does look tired, Ivan will admit. “Do you really want to sleep?”

“If you want to.”

“That’s not an answer.”

Yao laughs under his breath, rolling his eyes. “Fine. Sleep time.”

Ivan smiles, kisses his neck once, and pulls back to adjust his pillow. Yao always likes to sleep against his chest, and Ivan’s in no position to deny him that. It’s no longer a safety thing, or at least Ivan doesn’t think it is, but Yao still likes it. Yao still likes being close to him, still likes to answer all of Ivan’s admittedly dumb questions at 3 in the morning, still kisses him while making breakfast in the morning. Yao is still his, through everything that they’ve been through. They’ve come a long way from peasant huts in Jiangxi, and yet Yao still feels the same cuddled into his side.

They will fall back together, someday, Ivan is certain of it.

**Author's Note:**

> Historical References:
> 
> 1) Yes, Yao's rant about Khrushchev is actually pretty close to the modern CCP interpretation of Soviet history.  
2) Their anniversary being October 2nd is meant to coincide with the USSR recognizing the PRC.  
3) "Siberia in the 17th century" is a reference to the Treaty of Nerchinsk, the first western-style treaty that China was ever a part of.  
4) Yes, there was a brief "Soviet China" aka the Jiangxi Soviet in the 1930s. No, it was not part of the USSR, but it did use their governmental/organizational systems as much as possible given the fact they were still fighting a civil war.  
5) November 23rd 1971 is when the PRC took the Chinese seat on the UN Security Council for the first time.  
6) Nixon visited China for the first time in early 1972, although market reforms in China wouldn't be instituted until 1978, after Mao's death.  
7) It's hard to say exactly when the Soviet Union truly "ended" but a strong argument could be made for Christmas 1991, when Gorbachev resigned and the Soviet flag was lowered for the final time.  
8) Yao's cousin is Vietnam.  
9) Gilbert represents East Germany during the Cold War; I don't remember how much this interpretation is accepted in the fandom at large but I do seem to remember it being an interpretation at least some people had.


End file.
